relationship, then married, fifteen years ago. Ryan refused to eat the first meal Lynne cooked for him when she finally moved up. Roast chicken. She hadn’t trussed the bird. Lynne couldn’t believe it: They were in the middle of upstate New York—where was she supposed to get butcher’s string? She was pissed. When she told me about the event, now fifteen years in the past, she was still pissed. Ryan remained unapologetic. “I believe in trussing a chicken,” he said, by way of explanation. And that was that.
Ryan was now the man in charge of the place at which he’d spent all but five years of his adult life. He retained the chilliness I’d always sensed from my first meeting in 1995. This bothered me because I couldn’t see its source. It wasn’t as if the guy were an asshole or some blowhard corporate dude. Ryan was a nice guy who went out of his way to welcome me. I hadn’t graduated from the school, but he said he looked upon me as if I had. I got an appointment right away this time. And lunch. And all the time after I needed for further discussion. Nor did I feel as if he were hiding something, or not speaking frankly—he was unfailingly straightforward, and I usually agreed with what he said or at the very least understood his reasoning, which was clear and to the point. The guy knew food and cooking as well as or better than any chef I’d met, and he was smart and articulate.
Here’s an e-mail, his response to my request for a follow-up interview by phone to answer a few outstanding questions, and it’s typical of his tone generally:
Hi Michael,
Happy New Year!
It is always good to hear from you.
All is well here at the CIA.
I’ll ask Rona, to set up some time for us to talk.
In the meantime, it would be helpful if you could e-mail me the questions that you’d like to cover.
All the best,
Tim
And yet there was something that made him seem dangerous, as though you had to watch your step around him or he’d cut you—nothing personal. He played to win and never let that guard down. He was still a chef at his core—indeed, that chef core had likely made it possible for him to succeed outside the kitchen, in business, higher education, and administration. Anyone would have had to be ferocious to accomplish what he had by forty-three, his age when he replaced Metz. I’d seen this quality in great chefs and great surgeons. You had to be ruthless. Even when you played Candy Land or when your new wife served you a chicken that had not been trussed, you never let your guard down—ever. That was your standard, that was who you were. I wondered how much this had to do with how he grew up. Poor but not wanting for anything, he’d made his own way pretty much from age twelve. But his father, born into the Depression, was more or less forced from his family at that same age and spent his adult life as a poor laborer in a brewery. Perhaps part of Ryan’s ferocity was rooted in the anxiety of the immigrants’ shadow and a determination that harsh circumstances would never touch anyone in his family again—I don’t know. Nor did he—he would say only that he never saw anything he did as an accomplishment but, rather, as part of the process of reaching some bigger ultimate goal.
We returned to the elegant, ornate boardroom at the top of the main stairway on the second floor behind leaded-and beveled-glass doors. He gave me a PowerPoint slide show of the renovations about to begin, as well as some motivational and informational presentations the institute gives to faculty that underscores the changing nature of the workplace, everything from the new business environment to what does and what does not constitute sexual harassment. The conversation continued to swerve into the nature and meaning of chefs’ sudden celebrity. He’d had to stop himself from talking about it at lunch because I was trying to save it for a more considered time when I could concentrate and take notes. But it was
Ryan was now the man in charge of the place at which he’d spent all but five years of his adult life. He retained the chilliness I’d always sensed from my first meeting in 1995. This bothered me because I couldn’t see its source. It wasn’t as if the guy were an asshole or some blowhard corporate dude. Ryan was a nice guy who went out of his way to welcome me. I hadn’t graduated from the school, but he said he looked upon me as if I had. I got an appointment right away this time. And lunch. And all the time after I needed for further discussion. Nor did I feel as if he were hiding something, or not speaking frankly—he was unfailingly straightforward, and I usually agreed with what he said or at the very least understood his reasoning, which was clear and to the point. The guy knew food and cooking as well as or better than any chef I’d met, and he was smart and articulate.
Here’s an e-mail, his response to my request for a follow-up interview by phone to answer a few outstanding questions, and it’s typical of his tone generally:
Hi Michael,
Happy New Year!
It is always good to hear from you.
All is well here at the CIA.
I’ll ask Rona, to set up some time for us to talk.
In the meantime, it would be helpful if you could e-mail me the questions that you’d like to cover.
All the best,
Tim
And yet there was something that made him seem dangerous, as though you had to watch your step around him or he’d cut you—nothing personal. He played to win and never let that guard down. He was still a chef at his core—indeed, that chef core had likely made it possible for him to succeed outside the kitchen, in business, higher education, and administration. Anyone would have had to be ferocious to accomplish what he had by forty-three, his age when he replaced Metz. I’d seen this quality in great chefs and great surgeons. You had to be ruthless. Even when you played Candy Land or when your new wife served you a chicken that had not been trussed, you never let your guard down—ever. That was your standard, that was who you were. I wondered how much this had to do with how he grew up. Poor but not wanting for anything, he’d made his own way pretty much from age twelve. But his father, born into the Depression, was more or less forced from his family at that same age and spent his adult life as a poor laborer in a brewery. Perhaps part of Ryan’s ferocity was rooted in the anxiety of the immigrants’ shadow and a determination that harsh circumstances would never touch anyone in his family again—I don’t know. Nor did he—he would say only that he never saw anything he did as an accomplishment but, rather, as part of the process of reaching some bigger ultimate goal.
We returned to the elegant, ornate boardroom at the top of the main stairway on the second floor behind leaded-and beveled-glass doors. He gave me a PowerPoint slide show of the renovations about to begin, as well as some motivational and informational presentations the institute gives to faculty that underscores the changing nature of the workplace, everything from the new business environment to what does and what does not constitute sexual harassment. The conversation continued to swerve into the nature and meaning of chefs’ sudden celebrity. He’d had to stop himself from talking about it at lunch because I was trying to save it for a more considered time when I could concentrate and take notes. But it was
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